#shachaai

The forest around Wolf Trap is dark and deep.

Will can hear the crunch of hooves nearby, stepping delicately over packed leaves and loam.

But…something’s off.

The forest is too quiet. Even at night, there should be insects and movement, the song of birds of prey feasting in the dark.

There is a silence. Too deep, too thick for it to be normal.

The silence of a predator stalking.

Prepared to strike—!

The forest bursts into noise. The crunch of claws over leaves. The patter of darting hooves. The snarls and snaps of toothy maws.

Abigail, eyes wide and wet and frightened as they stare down at him, stifling sobs.

The Ravenstag bolts.

Teeth lunge, snap.

Bring it down.

The meat is left unfeasted on, to fester, to rot.

Will Graham wakes up on a sofa.

It is not his sofa. He could never own anything as plush and luxurious as this, firm packed goose down supporting him even as it cradles his weary body.

He’s at Dr. Lecter’s then. But how? The last he can remember, he was at Wolf Trap—

There’s the smell of something burning.

Will pushes himself up, hobbles over to the kitchen.

Four dinner plates, stacked neatly on the countertop.

Forks, not nearly so neatly posed, scattered as they are. Silverware drawer still slightly ajar.

There are the trimmings and trappings of a meal. Root vegetables, sliced wafer thin. A dirty bowl, smeared with the remains of oil and herbs and spices. A hunk of unidentifiable meat, waiting on a chopping board and glistening pink with its own juices and marinades.

Another, larger joint going black in the pan.

Will switches off the heat.

Something prickles down his spine that Will can’t name. Doesn’t want to name.

“Doctor?” He calls. “Dr. Lecter?”

Something crunches underfoot.

There’s broken glass on the floor.

Will follows the trail to one of the windows

Dr. Hannibal Lecter is lying in his foyer, the front door wide open. His eyes are wide, mouth gently parted.

No need to check him for a pulse, part of Will thinks hysterically.

Not when his throat’s been so violently savaged only the vulnerable vertebrae and cartilage of his spine still attach the head to the rest of the body.

Hannibal leans against the filing cabinet, full of easy grace.

“Tell me, Will.” He asks quietly, gently. “Why do you think that I was killed?”

Will exhales, shaky.

You aren’t supposed to talk to hallucinations.

Julia Montauk does not look like she has the right to be Hannibal Lecter’s killer.

A tall woman who somehow manages to make the orange jumpsuit she’s wearing look scruffy. Running the edge of one filthy nail under the other, trying to scrape out the black remains of god knows what. A rangy tenseness to her frame, a false show of casualness that betrays her eagerness to strike.

Will feels bile boiling in his stomach at the sight of her.

“You can hear it too, can’t you?” She leans forwards, eyes blown wide. “The call to chase down those bastards that think they’re top dog. To make ‘em quiver, make ‘em scared, make ‘em run. To Hunt.”

For a moment, Will feels a sharp cold across his face. An itch in his trigger finger. The specter of Garret Jacob Hobbs stares out from her face.

Hannibal’s hand comes down on his shoulder with all the force of a slammed door.

Will’s stomach roils in protest.

“Those who have suffered abuse in childhood oft-times find themselves trapped in relationships with a new predator during their adult lives.” Hannibal tilts his head. “Why do you think that is?”

Will shoots him a glare. “…This better not be a weird form of victim blaming.”

A flicker of a frown passes over Hannibal’s face. Recrimination. “Will. Being obtuse does not become you.”

Will raises his hands in mock surrender, then pauses to think about it.

“…Those who prey on others look for insecurities. Vulnerabilities.” He says slowly. “Chinks in armor that they can twist themselves into. Survivors have those because they’ve been through more battles than most.“

Hannibal nods, a pleased smile spreading over his face. “And often lack the proverbial blacksmith who would reinforce said armor for the battle with the next dragon. How could any wyrm resist such an opportunity?”

“So, what?” Will busies himself drying Buster, trying to ground himself in the scent of wet dog and the feeling of damp fur. “You’re saying that these…these things and their ‘avatars’ are coming for me because I’ve had the misfortune of surviving one of them?”

“Hyenas pride themselves on stealing from those greater than them.” Hannibal stands, walks across to examine the bookcase behind Will. “Many of the entities, the Hunt and the Eye among them, delight in tormenting those who have escaped greater threats than they.”

Will gives an absent nod as he chews his lip, wholly unprepared for Hannibal to continue, “Or those who serve them.”

He stops.

Buster lets out a whine, nudging his nose against Will’s shoulder.

“Wait.” He twists, stares up at Hannibal. “You aren’t saying. You, you weren’t—?”

Hannibal smiles, indulgent and proud.

“No.” Will insists. Denies. Pleads. “No, you’re. You’re a hallucination. You’re in my head.”

“And it took so long to put myself there.” Hannibal purrs, stride slow and purposeful as he stalks towards Will. “So many meals, only the choicest morsels for someone as dear as you. To whet your appetite. To feed the impulses I saw could free you. To know you as intimately as I wished you could know me.”

He kneels as Will rears back, hands slippery with sweat. “And you, my dear Will, you ate so well for me. You partook.”

His hands are warm as they cup Will’s face. Too warm. Much too warm for what should only be a hallucination, a ghost, a memory—!

“For my Flesh is food indeed and my blood is drink indeed.” Will quotes, without quite knowing why. Without letting himself understand why.

This close he can see every wrinkle in Hannibal’s face that crinkles with delight, with undisguised affection. “I wish we had more time. More chances to prepare you, to nourish you before we were set upon by scavengers. But you will not be alone, Will. I will never let you go hungry.”

The scents of Hannibal’s dinner table fill the small house. A communion, for the two of them alone.

Saliva bursts in his mouth.